


Ancient Scars

by amyfortuna



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Post-Canon, Second Kinslaying | Sack of Doriath, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-21 21:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8260967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: Early in the Fourth Age, Celeborn meets an old enemy and has to decide how to deal with him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/gifts).



The rain lashed down over the roofs of Imladris, beating out a staccato pattern on the dark wood. Inside, the few Elves that remained, their lord and leader Celeborn among them, had gathered in the Hall of Fire. Elladan and Elrohir were out in the cold dark, patrolling the borders of Imladris to ensure all were safe. Late autumn oft brought wild weather, and this was the wildest storm Celeborn had seen for many long years. 

The great hearth blazed warmth into the cold room; several of the household were gathered not far from it, singing a lighthearted song about the falling leaves that would in spring return. Celeborn was somewhat further away, his mind roaming through the darkness with his grandsons, or far out beyond the mountains to where his granddaughter ruled with her mortal husband, or even further, beyond the Sundering Seas themselves to where his wife and his daughter had now been reunited in Valinor. 

For all the tales that Galadriel had told him of the land of her birth, he still could not picture Valinor in truth. As a child, years uncounted long ago, he had heard the summons of Oromë to the land of the Valar beyond the Seas, had followed Elwë his uncle, had stayed to look for him. And Valinor had never seemed truly real. Not even when he beheld the Silmaril shining bright in Thingol's hand. Not even when he first beheld Galadriel, Artanis as she once was, her braided hair crowning her proudly, though thin and weary she looked then from her journey across the Grinding Ice. It was all mystery and rumour, too fair to be true, too far to be possible. 

His musings were suddenly interrupted. The door to the Hall of Fire swung wide, and Elrohir dashed in, soaked through. "Grandfather," he said. "We found someone on the borders. Elladan's bringing him in now." 

"Who?" Celeborn said, getting to his feet. The singers stopped their song and some of them came forward to volunteer their help. 

"An Elf," Elrohir said. "Not one we know. He is all but unconscious - we thought he might have hit his head. He looked weary beyond measure, but was muttering feverishly about our father." 

"Bring him to the healing rooms," Celeborn said. 

A short while later, the sodden Elf lay on a cot in Imladris' rooms of healing, murmuring to himself with closed eyes. He was chilled through, dirty rags his only garments, an ancient harp and sword the only things he possessed. His dark locks lay muddled on the white counterpane as three healers rapidly divested him of his ruined clothing. 

Celeborn watched carefully, arms folded over his chest. He almost instantly recognised the strange guest, even without the evidence of the harp and the sword. He had never been in the habit of forgetting those he'd faced in battle, and the only other Elf he'd ever faced over the points of their swords would certainly linger, no matter how many thousands of years it had been since then. 

"We should move him to a bed once we get him reclothed, my lord," Raenien, who was chief among the healers despite her young years, said to him. He started up at being addressed, almost lost in old memories of blood and fear. 

"Yes, of course," he answered. "Have you found a wound?"

"We think he slipped or fainted, possibly from hunger, and hit his head on a rock," she said. "There's some blood on the back of his head, but any wound appears to have already closed. He heals rapidly, my lord, like one of the High Elves." 

"And so he is," Celeborn said, almost more to himself than her. "I believe him to be Maglor, son of Fëanor." 

Raenien squeaked and took a step back without even thinking about it, then laughed at her own fearful reaction. "Maglor the singer?" she said, carefully controlling her voice. 

"The same," Celeborn said. "And many other things besides." 

She nodded, and turned back to Maglor, looking him over carefully in the light of this new information, then squared her shoulders, and began to give orders to her fellow healers, calmly and efficiently. 

Following some further fussing and careful checking of the back of his head, the healers moved Maglor, now covered with a sheet, into a warm bed and covered him with several blankets. 

"He will need someone to watch over him," Raenien said. "Head injuries are unpredictable." 

"I will," Celeborn said immediately, to her obvious relief. She gave him a few brief instructions about what to do if he awakened, then left, saying she would return to check on them in a few hours. 

Silence fell. Celeborn stood with crossed arms for another moment where he was, then stepped over to the bed and sat down upon it. Maglor's arm was outflung nearly to the edge of the large bed, hand curled, and Celeborn lifted the cold hand, opening the fingers to see the remnants of a gnarled, ancient scar there. For a moment he could almost see the Silmaril resting in the palm of Maglor's hand, shining, burning there. 

It was this hand that held a blade to his throat, so long ago on a midwinter night in Doriath. Celeborn had been asked to defend the retreat of Nimloth - his own niece - and Elwing, with the Silmaril. All the rest of the Sons of Fëanor seemed to have gone straight for the throne room and Dior, but Maglor was canny enough to know that the prize they sought would not be there. 

Elwing - the Silmaril concealed in her garments - with her servants went first down the tunnel, and Nimloth had just turned to enter the tunnel herself when Maglor came from out of the shadows, followed by his brother Caranthir. 

Caranthir went straight for Nimloth, who drew her sword and met him boldly, but Maglor advanced on Celeborn, clearly the stronger of the two. The light in his eyes was fearsome. He was not afraid to die or to kill. 

Maglor's swordplay was deadly and dangerous. Celeborn could not even spare the time to glance over at Nimloth and see how she was doing, through from her taunts and Caranthir's sudden shocked gasp he suspected rather well. They had to buy time for Elwing to get away. That was all that mattered. 

Celeborn, taller than Maglor, found this to be a disadvantage. Of course Maglor had spent the last few hundred years training with his brother and was well used to fighting someone both stronger and taller, whereas Celeborn sparred mainly with his wife, of equal height to himself, or, in years gone by, with Thingol, slightly taller than himself. Maglor was efficient, ruthless, brutal, and quickly drew blood from him with a nick to the shoulder - a superficial wound, but it hurt. 

Slowly but surely Celeborn found himself pinned against the wall, and realised that he was losing this fight. He tried to disarm Maglor - it didn't work. He tried to slip away from the wall, but Maglor was too fast for him, and brought his blade up to his throat. 

Caranthir cried out suddenly, and that got Maglor's attention like nothing else could have. Quick as a flash he turned, and Celeborn took the opportunity to get away, slipping out from the corner where he had been trapped. 

Nimloth and Caranthir had wounded each other. Nimloth still stood on her feet, but Caranthir was sliding down the wall to the ground, bleeding from his side. Maglor seemed to forget everything about Celeborn and ran to his brother, dropping to his knees beside him, whispering frantic words in that strange language they spoke. 

"Come. Now," Celeborn said to Nimloth, and she turned, unsteady on her feet. She swayed a little toward him, and he caught her in his arms. The door of the tunnel was still open, and he carried her through it, setting her down on the other side to block it off with several heavy broken bits of stone. But when he tried to pick her up again she groaned in such pain that he let go. 

"I can go no further," she said. "But you must. Protect Elwing. Find Galadriel." She smiled. "At least one of them will never hold a Silmaril," she breathed, and those were her last words. 

Celeborn came suddenly out of his memories and back to Imladris, realising that he was clenching Maglor's wrist with his fingers so hard he was all but crushing it. He dropped Maglor's hand as if it had been a snake, and bowed his head, covering his face with his hands. 

Two long Ages had passed, and what revenge was left? He could throttle Maglor here and now, have done with it. He could smother him with one of the white pillows on the bed. He could go to the case of surgical knives, take one out, and slit his throat. He could wait until Maglor awoke, and then challenge him to finish their fight. He could simply throw him back out into the rain and let the Wild take him. 

Maglor stirred a little, muttering softly, "Elrond, _mírenya_ , the knife is for food not music," and Celeborn looked up, letting his hands fall. 

Of course he wouldn't do any of those things. Revenge, if it was to be, had been worked out over long years of wandering and suffering. And no revenge would bring back Doriath, would make brave Nimloth or beautiful young Dior or their silver, laughing, twins live again, would take the suffering from Elwing's life, would give her children back to her, would compensate for all the grief and pain he had himself endured. 

But there was still one thing that Maglor the singer, Maglor of the mighty voice, could do, some small recompense that he could give. It would cost him little, and yet mean much.

* * *

When Maglor awoke, it was to a tall silver-haired Elf, one who looked vaguely familiar, leaning over him. 

"You seem much improved," the strange Elf said, patting his hand. Maglor jerked it away, seeing that there were bruises around his wrist, as if it had been squeezed too hard by large fingers. 

"I...am," he said slowly, realising that he, in fact, did feel much refreshed, and his head was no longer in pain. 

"Good," the strange Elf said. "Once you have recovered your strength, minstrel, you have a debt to pay." 

"I do?" Maglor asked. "And how do you know I am a minstrel?"

The Elf cast a glance toward Maglor's harp, lying on a table nearby, along with his sword. "It wasn't hard to work out. And, minstrel, if you will, I would ask you to sing me a song of Valinor, of your youth. Make it real for me. Make it live."

**Author's Note:**

>  _mírenya_ : Quenya, 'my jewel', used as a term of endearment.


End file.
